No Mr. Bond, I Expect You To Die!

I picture my son from the neck down, sitting in an overstuffed leather armchair I've never noticed before, a white cat on his lap. Like the armchair, stuffed, of course. He’s an infant after all.

Gently, he strokes the fur, and then his voice:

“So, Mr. Dad, we meet again.”

My son is an evil mastermind of Blofeld proportions. His vicious enmity is not in the form of world domination, but he’s young. He’ll get there. No, he rules his SPECTRE-like organization with a cunning that belies both his age and his giggle when you blow zerbits on his belly. His aim: the complete and utter loss of parental sanity through sleep-depravation.

You may have read the report that his reign of terror ended some time ago.

The reports of that demise have been greatly exaggerated. He took a brief hiatus, then returned with renewed vim and vigor, a more penetrating scream, and tears that could melt a Terminator’s non-existent heart.

Yes, he’s that good.

So, this morning, as I staggered into his room, he sat in the yellow cone his nightlight carefully angled to hide his grinning, bald head. My hand stumbled awkwardly toward my Walther PPK in the form of a bottle. He was unmoved by this threat.

“Surrender, I’ve already won,” he told me, with a cruel laugh.

“No,” I said, my resolve was shaky. “I’ll never join you!”

“And yet you are here.”

“Hah! That’s where you’re wrong,” and now it was my turn for a laugh, even though you shouldn’t laugh at your children.

His petting of the stuffed cat stopped.

“How so?”

“This is just a dream. If it were real, you wouldn’t be talking.”

“Oh.”

*vanishes in a poof of Adamsian logic*

Porter's Revenge

When Lillian went into labor, Porter had not dropped. Apparently, this is an important part of the delivery, and without dropping, most doctor's think, say, and then perform a C-section. However, my wife could give rocks and mules lessons on stubborn determination, and that just wasn't going to happen.

I'm fairly certain that when it came time to be born, Porter looked at the option and decided, "Naw, not for me." His thinking was fairly logical: he was warm, well-fed, didn't have to wear diapers, and had his own, personal punching/kicking bag.

But born he was, and he has not, let us forget how angry his is with our decision.

Porter doesn't cry.

Porter screams with length, breadth and duration that Banshees have sent us letters in protest. Angry doesn't begin to describe Porter's general state of being. He burns with a fiery intensity to rival a thousand suns going super-nova. My own personal ability to go from zero to leap-across-the-table-and-sink-my-canines-into-your-jugular-to-taste-the-salty-warmth-of-your-life-blood is but a mere shadow of the emotional outrage my son can summon at will.

Originally, I thought he was angry at being wet, dirty, hungry, cold, or America's continued dependence on foriegn oil.

Now, however, I'm certain the child has determined to punish his mother and father for ripping him from his original room of comfort and ease. I've asked him, and he's admitted, though not in a fashion admissable in court, that he sleeps during the day so as to be awake when I get home from a hard day's slaving at the marketing mills, and then summons his Kung Fu Fury to hurl at mother and father all through the night.

Though bleary-eyed and mostly zombie-brained, I have to admire his determination. You should too!

Porter Poses for a Pic

Ok, Porter didn't actually pose for these, but I like to use aliteration in my titles from time to time. Instead, consider these more slice of life.

In fact, don't consider them that, since that's what they are. So, instead, just enjoy.

This is Porter yawning, not crying. If he was crying, and I was taking a picture instead of trying to calm him down, my wife would break my picture taking fingers . . . that's all my fingers in case you were wondering. Since I like all my fingers bending in only one direction, this is just Porter having a mid-nap break.

This be what we call Porter's Pirate. Yarrr, he be lookin' fer some booby.

It's good to see that he is taking after his old man in the practice of Pastafarianism.

And this is the obligatory "awwww" picture. Porter asleep. I'm told you can see my mouth, chin and nose in here, but since I was taking the picture, I think physics is against the kinna thing.